Will you carry me please? I promise I’m not too heavy and that it won’t be for that long. I just need to be carried right now.
I’ve developed a life, thus far, where I haven’t ever allowed anyone to carry me. I have fallen into depths of great sorrow, self-indulgent pity trips and rage driven righteousness and picked myself up out of them on my own; sometimes with the help of analysts and ‘after the fact’ discussions with friends and family, but never really allowing anyone to experience the break down and help carry me through it. I thought I was being strong, and in some ways I was. This autonomy gave me freedom. I know from concrete experience that I am perfectly able to take care of myself, by myself, for myself. I am self-aware and hold myself accountable. I know that whatever I put my mind to I can achieve… but here’s the thing… the thing that I’m coming to realize more and more as time goes on… there is great strength in allowing yourself to be carried when you need it. There is great strength in admitting your pain to the ears of someone who loves you so much, they want to listen. There is great strength in allowing your self to be that vulnerable in fear. Some people fear heights; I tended to fear intimacy as I subconsciously projected it as a symbol of the loss of self. If I was to allow myself to be vulnerable I feared that I would also loose my self. Ironically, what I’ve come to realize is that the only way to truly be intimate and vulnerable is to know one’s self enough to be brave enough to do so. In essence having a great connection with self is the only way we can truly connect with others.
The question remains, is it too late for me. Have I developed my life to such an extent, in such context that I am incapable of connecting with a lover in that way? Of course I think of it in romantic terms, but for the sake of existence it can be any interpersonal relationship. I’ve met many people throughout my life who seem to be incapable of true intimacy, who view relationships as satiation rather than connection, who follow their ego rather than their heart. Usually, finding others who fit into the same sub-category as you is comforting, but I don’t find this comforting, I find this disturbing, in that it leads to so many other questions about humanity and what we have created, a psyche removed. We are beings of interconnectedness yet have created a world that thrives, in many ways, on disconnection.
On the other hand, I have also witnessed true love and connection, which does give me hope, however foolish some, might find this. I have decided to actively live in that hope, a new freedom coursing through my veins, the freedom of self in love. Maybe one day, I will be so lucky as to meet someone whom I want to carry me, someone who I will allow to see me in my vulnerability in all of its ugliness and beauty. Maybe one day I will be so fortunate as to meet him, be with him, love him and be loved by him. Just maybe, it’s not too late.
SONG OF MYSELF
By Walt Whitman
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet….the effect upon me of my early
life….of the ward and city I live in….of
the nation,
The latest news….discoveries, inventions,
societies….authors old and new,
My diner, dress, associates, looks, business,
compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or
woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks – or of myself….
or ill-doing….or loss or lack of money…
or depression or exaltations,
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands, amused, complacent, compassionating,
idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an impalpable
certain rest,
Looks with its sidecurved head, curious what will
come next,
Both in and out of the game, and watching and
wondering at it.
I believe in you my soul….the other I am must not
abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me in the grass….loose the stop from
your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want….
not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how we lay in June, such transparent
summer morning;
You settled your head athwart my hips and gently
turned over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my boson-bone, and
plunged your tongue to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till
you held my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace
and knowledge that pass all the argument
of the earth;
And I know that the hand of God is the elderhand
of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the eldest
brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my
brothers…and the women my sisters
and lovers,
And that a keelson of the creation is love.
Posted on March 30, 2015 Leave a comment